10. Jax
JAX
S weetwater announces itself before it shows.
I hear it first—the low thrum of pumps moving real water through old pipes, the layered hum of people who expect tomorrow to arrive.
The air changes as we crest the final ridge, dust giving way to something cooler, something that carries green under the metal and oil.
Even half-broken, strapped into the crawler with my ribs screaming every time it hits a rut, I feel the tension bleed out of me like a held breath finally released.
“Don’t look now,” Ragon says from the rear, voice pitched carefully casual, “but you appear to be smiling.”
“I’m not,” I tell him.
Sophie glances over, eyes bright despite the grit and exhaustion etched into her face. “You absolutely are.”
I scrub a hand over my mouth, feel the split skin there pull. “Reflex.”
Sweetwater rises from the basin like a promise that learned how to build walls.
Solar towers angle toward the sun. Wind baffles turn slowly, patient as grazing animals.
Terraced gardens climb the inner ring, green enough to hurt my eyes after days of rust and fire.
People gather along the outer causeway as the crawler rolls in, faces turning, recognition sparking fast.
Someone shouts my name.
The gate opens without ceremony. It never needed much. Sweetwater survives by deciding who belongs before they ask.
The crawler rolls across packed stone and finally settles near the distribution yard. When I kill the engine, the sudden quiet feels loud, almost intrusive. My hands shake when I pull them free of the controls. Pain has been waiting politely.
Sophie hops down first, already reaching for the seed cases.
“Easy,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
She looks back, chin lifting. “I’ve got them.”
Ragon drops down beside her, scales catching the light, cloak doing its best impression of humility. “She does,” he agrees. “I watched her cross a desert that eats optimists. She can manage a box.”
I snort. “Traitor.”
“Connoisseur,” he replies.
The yard fills quickly. Gaeshi emerges from between rows of water barrels, robes tucked up, eyes sharp as ever. She stops short when she sees me, relief hitting her face so hard it looks like impact.
“You look terrible,” she says, then pulls me into a careful, not-careful hug. “Good. You should. Come here.”
“Missed you too,” I murmur.
She pulls back, hands on my arms, cataloging damage with ruthless efficiency. “You’re bleeding.”
“Old news.”
“You’re limping.”
“Lifestyle choice.”
Her gaze flicks to Sophie, quick and thorough, then softens. “You must be the reason my idiot is standing.”
Sophie flushes, but she smiles. “Sophie.”
“Gaeshi,” she replies. “Welcome to Sweetwater.”
The seed cases open.
The reaction is immediate. People surge forward—not grabbing, not crowding, just needing to see . Leaves unfurl under filtered light. The smell hits—rich earth, clean and alive. A cheer rises, rough and unpolished, echoing off the walls and back into the sky.
I close my eyes. My chest tightens.
“Seeds are intact,” someone calls.
“Western strains survived transit,” another answers.
Ragon claps once, satisfied. “Marvelous. I enjoy being correct.”
Gaeshi turns to Sophie. “You did this?”
“With help,” Sophie says.
Gaeshi nods. “Then you’re family.”
Sophie swallows. “Thank you.”
The infirmary smells like antiseptic and herbs, a compromise Sweetwater perfected. I sit. Gaeshi ignores my protests and sets to work.
“You’re lucky,” she says, taping my ribs. “Two more days in Ace’s pit and you’d be a lesson.”
“Still could be.”
She snorts. “Don’t flirt with death. He gets attached.”
Ragon leans in the doorway, arms folded. “I did advise against capture.”
“Your timing remains questionable,” I tell him.
“Heroic,” he corrects.
Sophie lingers near the door, hands wrapped around herself like she’s holding something together. Gaeshi finishes and gestures her closer.
“Tell me what you need,” Gaeshi says.
Sophie inhales. “I’m here to find my father.”
The room stills.
Gaeshi doesn’t react outwardly, but her eyes sharpen. “Name.”
Sophie gives it.
“I know what the Alliance report says,” Sophie continues. “It’s wrong. He was here. He didn’t die the way they claim.”
Gaeshi nods once. “If he passed through Sweetwater, we’ll find a trace.”
“I can help,” I say, stepping forward. “The Western Temple observatory keeps sky logs. Drift anomalies. If he ran dark, they’ll show.”
Sophie looks at me. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
She laughs softly. “You’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
Ragon clears his throat. “And while you two conduct your western archaeology of feelings, I shall make myself useful in the east.”
I turn. “You’re leaving.”
“Briefly,” he says. “The Eastern Temple keeps trade records Ace never managed to destroy. I will… inquire.”
“With subtlety?” Sophie asks.
He smiles. “With enthusiasm.”
The preparations are quick. That’s how it always goes when paths split. You talk around it. You pack. You avoid saying the obvious until it’s already standing between you.
At the crawler, Ragon checks straps with unnecessary thoroughness.
“You’re staying,” he says to me, casual as dust.
“I am.”
“Good,” he replies. “Someone needs to keep her alive.”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “I’m right here.”
“And thriving,” he adds smoothly.
He steps back, scales catching the light, then claps my shoulder—careful, for once.
“Try not to get captured again,” he says.
“Try not to accessorize a war crime,” I reply.
He gasps. “You wound me.”
Ragon turns to Sophie and inclines his head. “I will return. Ideally with answers.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she says.
He smiles, sharp and genuine, then turns and disappears into the movement of Sweetwater.
Sophie and I stand there a moment longer, the crawler humming quietly behind us, the settlement alive and working all around us.
“West,” she says finally.
“West,” I agree.
We turn together, toward stars and records and the long work ahead.